


A is for Amaranthine

by OtakuElf



Series: YADAA (Yet Another Dragon Age Alphabet) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Darkspawn, Gen, Mages and Templars, NaNoWriMo, Vigil's Keep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders waits in a cell in Vigil's Keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A is for Amaranthine

**Author's Note:**

> Needed a little fun writing for NaNoWriMo.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my lovely beta, Lunamoth116!

Amaranthine. Maker. What was I thinking? Wouldn’t Gwaren have been a better place to avoid the templars? If I wanted a port to escape Ferelden, in any case. There is, after all, no Circle there. They did catch me in Denerim. No Circle there either, but a huge cathedral in Andraste’s hometown and all. I should have known better. Took them a while in Denerim. Didn’t occur to them to find me in the Pearl. Now they’ve caught me in Amaranthine.

When was the last time I was captured by templars that I did not hurt all over? At least...no. I’m not counting as a blessing that this time they just hit me. Well, and tossed me into this gaol cell. This looks old. Black iron bars, not rusted - so they’re used to having prisoners. Still, it’s above ground. The stories about this place, and about Arl Howe, do not bring to mind hospitality. Not that the rumors say anything about a dislike of mages.

There’s an argument going on out in the hallway. Stone echoes so, but I can still make out the gist of the argument. The Orlesians are worried about an attack of some kind. Darkspawn. The accent is thick, but I think that man said he could feel them. Near. Some form of spell? A potion? Not one that I’ve heard of.

The templars are refusing to be a part of any defense. Their sole purpose is to restrain me - done that. Do they think these cuffs allow for any fun-time movement at all? I can’t even scratch, much less cast a magic spell to melt these bars and allow me to scarper - and to continue on our trip tomorrow to my date with the branding iron. Sounds like I won’t even get a hearing this time, to hear the templars talk. They think that Greagoir has been “too soft” with his charges. The big dark-haired one has a writ for my “correction”, as he put it.

Of course, they always talk like that to mages. Threatening. I’ve just never heard them openly say as much to someone official like the Grey Wardens here. Noise from the hall. Shouting from outside - Orlesian, Fereldan, and I think I hear Nevarran mixed in.

My templar escort bundles into the room, barring the door. Much good that will do. This room is made to prevent escape, not to keep people out. I’m told to keep silent, brusquely, quietly. They’re listening. I listen too, though right now the blood is pounding in my ears. I don’t hear much. Not someone coming to lynch me. Only the templars know I’m here. 

And much as I’ve alienated everyone from the Kinlock Hold Circle, I don’t think they wish me dead. Silent, perhaps. No, silent most certainly. Wynne never could get me to be quiet in her healing classes. She went off to fight at Ostagar while I was in solitary. Wynne fighting is an alien concept. I know she’s the one who taught me how to heal, and how to use battle spells - like the tempered fire spell, or freezing - in healing. So it stands to reason that she knows the spells. I just can’t picture her wielding her staff with the intent to do more than scorch our britches when we tried to steal sweets from her classroom. Not against darkspawn anyway.

The templars are muttering to each other. One looks toward me. The others shake their heads. I try to think of a spell that would magnify their discussion, or carry it to my ears. Not that I could use it with these cuffs on. Are they planning to give me the brand now? I try to think of everything I know about Tranquility. What does it require? A branding iron, of course. Lyrium. The Rite. Are they going to take care of me now? They’d mentioned how much easier it would be to travel with me as a Tranquil.

The sickening feeling that thought brings, a lump of stone in my belly, transforms into a pulse of electricity up my spine as I hear a roaring sound, sickly screaming from outside the room. Banging - something is trying to get in. The templars are silent, their swords drawn, their Chantry marked shields ready as they wait for the wooden door to break behind the assault. I can do nothing. I cannot fight, or shield myself. Runed silverite wrist cuffs, created by the Tranquil to prevent mages from casting, from reaching for the magic within, prevent me from fighting. Perhaps it’s time to cower in this ten foot-square cell. 

Certainly there’s nowhere to hide. Not from darkspawn. The bunk is supported by chains attached to the wall, and not wide enough to give any sort of cover. I could throw the chamber pot at them. I could throw it at them, if I could pick it up with my hands cuffed together as they are. And since I used it, I’m more than a little worried about spilling the contents all over myself rather than the darkspawn. Although perhaps I’d hit the templars. “Oh, sorry. Meant to hit the genlock behind you!”

I know better, but I try anyway. “Unlock me. I can help you fight them off!” I shout.

One spits - the man who put his boot in my stomach when I was down on the ground from their smiting yesterday. I have been calling him Biff. He really hates it. I think he might be the templar hunter leader's boyfriend. What was her name? Rylock? Another of the three scowls and grits out, “Not a chance. You’re not running off this time.”

The nasty blond makes an equally nasty hand gesture. Ah, well. “Class will tell,” I say loudly enough to be heard over the noise from outside the room. Oh, he didn’t appreciate that statement at all. Fortunately he was distracted by a banging on the door, then a consistent booming, as whoever is behind it begins to work in earnest. The heavy oak of the door bows, then begins to splinter. The black ironwork of the hinges screams in protest before giving way. It’s deafening, the collapse of the wood onto the stone flags of the floor, as the darkspawn behind attempt to rush into the room.

The darkspawn do look like something out of a children’s market puppet drama. One of the few entertainments I got to see when I was free in Denerim. Hurlocks all of them at first, pushing each other to jam through the opening. They clog the door until the numbers behind them press them forward onto the swords of the templars. Genlocks behind those taller darkspawn seem to be trying to shoot over them into the room. They’re none too gentle on their compatriots, as a few arrows and bolts end up in the behinds of the hurlocks in front. One of those frightening, pale, skeletal creatures pulls back to screech at the smaller, squat darkspawn, before renewing his assault against my jailers. 

They’re going to be overrun. There are only three of them. Three were, of course, necessary to ensure that I did not escape during the trip back to the Circle. The rest of the hunter troop had gone on to wherever they thought the next apostate might show up. 

Their battle is not a silent one. The grunts of effort in the swing of a sword, or the bash of a shield can be heard in spite of the chatter of the darkspawn. One voice rises - I do not recognize which one - using the Chant of Light as a battle song. It startles the darkspawn to begin with, but not for long. The three men are tiring. Dead genlocks and hurlocks pile at their feet, but more pour through the doorway.

Bleeding from a ghastly headwound, the one who refused to let me loose for fear of my running scrabbles at his belt, then tosses the key to my cuffs through the bars of the cage. They’re back to the black iron now, trapped, almost as much as I am. “Help us! Please!” he begs.

“I can’t get out of the cell,” I point out, reaching down to pick the key up clumsily with my restrained hands.

“You can fight. Without the cuffs Through the bars You can help us. For the love of Andraste, help us to stand fast!” Those words are breathless from the effort at holding against the foul creatures gibbering around them.

Ah. I can fight. I could. And then, when we had won through, there would be back-slapping and the freedom of joyous brotherhood against the darkspawn. Right before they turned me over to Tranquility. This man is giving me one last chance to use my magic before they take the Fade away from me for good and ever. He is trusting me to stand with them against this great threat to humanity. A greater threat, it seems, than magic. To refuse is suicide. 

I’m not suicidal. I am, however, inside a cage. The darkspawn are outside of the cage with the templars. Unfastening the cuffs takes some time. I drop the keys twice, before I get a solid enough grip to free myself. Dropping the enchanted metal with a feeling of satisfaction, I take stock. A filthy, long-nailed arm slashes through the bars in an attempt to reach me. Jumping backward, I can feel the stone blocks of my prison against my back, cold through the mage’s robes they put on me once my “ordinary person” disguise was taken away.

Only the nasty blond is left fighting. The man who threw me the keys is alive, but being ripped apart as the darkspawn cram pieces of his flesh into their mouths. The third templar is gone. I don’t see a sign of his body under the press of darkspawn against the bars of my cell. That blond-haired head turns, gives me a desperate, pleading look as he begs, “Help me, please!”

I take that final step, not a physical one - since I’m obviously pressed as far away from the bars as I can get to avoid the darkspawn - but I refuse his plea. I look him eye to eye. I do nothing but wait.

The lone templar is swarmed by the horde. He goes down. It’s odd how most of the creatures concentrate on his body for a time before turning their attention to me. Those that hadn’t been straining to now try to grab me through the iron bars. The templars at least managed to destroy the genlocks' bows, so they can't shoot at me anymore. For a few moments - possibly a few hours - I am sealed in a box of darkspawn as they squeeze into the iron bars, striving to break them down with the press of their bodies when it becomes obvious that they cannot reach me. Nor does it occur to them to find the key in the clothing of the templars they have ripped apart. That's actually interesting.

The stench is overpowering. Not just the smell of death and blood. That would be horrible enough. There is something wrong, something in the odor of their bodies that tells my human self to get away. This is not natural, whatever they are. I was a farmer’s child. I know the smell of rot and manure. Those things, while not always pleasant, are normal.

The taint. The scent of it, that must be it. I clench my lips, trying not to breathe. I know that the taint is not spread through the air. It’s blood that passes it, and touch. I still hold each breath as long as I can to avoid taking even the tainted air of the darkspawn into my body. I think at this point, other than my reluctance to let any part of these hideous things touch me, my fear is gone. It’s just been too much for poor, silly mage Anders, and the fear has just taken a walk without me. 

I make a few choice comments to my captors, never one to let common sense get the best of me. They chatter back for a while before becoming bored and wandering off to find something else to kill and eat. A few hang about outside the door, waiting for me to be foolish enough to walk over to the bars, or at least close enough for them to get a claw on me. The Circle might raise its share of fools, but in this case, I think that even Finn would know what to do. I wait. 

It becomes silent after a time - in my room, at least. The gibbering of the genlocks and hurlocks fades away down the corridor as they seek other prey. Until the noise, shouting, clashing, the sound of battle comes to me from down the hall. Rescue! Maker, grant me this one request. Let it not be templars! Or darkspawn! Nothing could be worse than templars and darkspawn!


End file.
